


ends , in every form.

by dayclo



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Breakup, Depressing, Ending Relationship, Ends, First work - Freeform, Fluff, Heavy Angst, I REPEAT MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING, If You Squint - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kinda, M/M, Sad, Sad Ending, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Triggers, a little tiny bit of fluff, clay is sad, colourblind, ending, george is completely colourblind, georgeis depressed, i actually used literary devices, kinda english, kinda metaphoric, major trigger warning, warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-21 19:20:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30026610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dayclo/pseuds/dayclo
Summary: The end of many things.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Kudos: 12





	ends , in every form.

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO EVERYONE ( or no one)   
> this is my first ever story, and i'm excited...!   
> But its not a fluffy one, so please note MAJOR TRIGGER WARNINGS!
> 
> please please do not read if you are in a depressed state, or feel uncomfortable on the theme of depression and suicide, because that is basically the whole book.   
> Please, click off if you do.
> 
> I have not in any form glorified or romanticized suicide, as thats a big NO.   
> A Lot of the feelings and experiences in this story are taken from personal experience, so please don't comment " this is unrealistic" because it happens. 
> 
> AGAIN: trigger warning for suicide and depression, i really don't want to make anyone feel uncomfortable.

Our story starts at the end. The end of many things. The first being, well; the end of the day. 

“Is it beautiful?” 

Clay couldn’t lie to him. The sunset was one of the most beautiful he had seen, colours he never had even imagined poured down from an angel's escape, creating a disease of red and yellow. The sun, still visible, shined on them, lighting up their hearts, eyes, faces.   
How could he lie to him? 

“Yes. Yes, it is.” 

Guilt settled on the bottom of his stomach after he said it, for the colours that George could never imagine was where the beauty lay, and this beauty George could never see.   
George clears his throat “The most beautiful?” 

Possibly, the most beautifully sunset Clay had ever seen, but the most beautiful thing? With George by his side - face illuminated in reds and yellows and pale skin glowing in the light—

“No. Not the most beautiful.”

There was no simple way to put it. No colours, no sun, no universe - could ever compare to George.   
“Okay.” He sat cross-legged, and looked small against the size of the ground beneath him and sky in his hair. 

George was focused on the dull sky ahead of him. The lack of colours denied him from distinguishing it from other sunsets, from other dusks. But he never would see it. He couldn’t see the beauty. What was he worth? If his world was black grey and white how could he dream and long and love? If his world was dead and empty how could he be aware of any beauty? He needed colour to love the sky, to love the sun, to love dawn and dusk.  
The question that he hated with a passion arose at the back of his head continuously. Again and again and again and again squeezing its way into his temple and infiltrating him, consuming him. 

Why me? 

The question was more than simply a question of identity, it was question of purpose. Why was he here? Why was he him? What was he worth? How did he matter?   
He didn’t. He thought again, shoving the question down, muzzling it, cuffing it, suffocating it. 

And before the question arose again, he looked at Clay, and made eye contact. The beauty in front of him, begged him to stay. He didn’t need colours to love clay. Black and white was enough for George when he saw clay, even though George couldn’t see the blond of his hair and the green of his eyes, Clay was his subject of beauty, and he just looked like love to George. No sunset, no universe, no world could ever compare to Clay. 

But as much as George despised the sunset for discriminating against him, he longed for it. 

“Describe it to me?”   
Clay tore his glaze from George and looked back at the sky.

“It's yellow, mostly, and pink.”   
George scoffed,   
“I'm going to need more than that Clay.”   
“Again? Do you want me to tell you about the colours again?” Clay didn’t need to look at George, he knew the answer. He had described to George many times the colours, and each time, George loved it. 

“Yellow is the colour of lemon, but it doesn’t taste like lemon. It tastes like…” He pauses to think. “Yellow tastes like passion fruit - yeah and like passion fruit only when it has been in the fridge - it cannot be room temperature.”  
George laughed at this.   
“And yellow feels like - like when you break something - or do something wrong but your parents just laugh at it, and it's all okay? You know? Like yellow feels like the disappearance of guilt.”  
George thought. The disappearance of guilt?   
“Yellow smells like-” Clay paused to laugh, shaking his head “Like cheap windex!”  
George giggled at that too, unfolding his leg from beneath him and shifting so he sat next to Clay.   
He spoke, “ Sounds? How does yellow sound?” 

Clay didn’t even hesitate: “Like you. It sounds like when you do you laugh.”   
As cliche as that was, George's heart hurt and cheeks burnt. Clay looks down, suddenly interested in his hoodie. 

A minute goes by, maybe two. 

“I like that.” George saids. “Thank you.”   
And with that, the light fades from. The sky and the clouds sink into the atmosphere. Clay and George watch it, until it is over. 

As much as he wants it to stay, Clay cannot do anything, but watch it end. 

~

Days after, once Clay has returned home and George has locked himself back in his house again, another end approaches. 

~  
Twenty pages are left exactly in George’s story. And while Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett deserve their happy ending, George is beyond jealous.   
Who decided they could have a happy ending?

Which God judged them from the clouds and allowed them to love and be loved with no consequence? The same one who had cursed George? With limited access to objects and displays of beauty?   
Perhaps we each get a gift, some more valuable than others, some more fragile than others. Each with their own curses. 

George got Clay, George got beautiful Clay to hold and look at and touch and for that, George lost his colour.   
He put his book down, on his chest, his hands shaking. Raw undiagnosable emotions tearing him apart. He hoped with every nerve in his body with every year in his soul that he was Clay's gift. 

But with shaking hands he picks up his phone, and checks his messages. 

Nothing. 

Nothing since he met with Dream on that sunset day. Not one word.   
Only blue messages were on the screen, words of longing, words of love.   
Gosh. George dropped his phone. Even his words sounded miserable. 

If George was Clay's gift - he would have replied - he would have loved him like George loved Clay.   
So the short answer to his previous question was no. 

No. George you are a prize for no one, a goal, a treasure, a present, a star for none. 

George slid off the couch, lying on his stomach with the book in front of him. He flips the book back open, scanning for a particular page number.   
He finds it.   
You have bewitched me. Body and soul. And I love love love you.   
You have bewitched me. Body and soul. And I love love love you.  
You have bewitched me. Body and soul. And I love love love you.  
He read it over and over. Tears slipping onto the pages.   
You have bewitched me. Body and soul. And I love love love you.  
You have bewitched me. Body and soul. And I love love love you.  
A small voice, screams at him: WHY HIM? 

You have bewitched me. Body and soul. And I love love love you. You have bewitched me. Body and soul. And I love love love you. You have bewitched me. Body and soul. And I love love love you. You have bewitched me. Body and soul. And I love love love you.

Then, with shuddering breath and aching eyes, he finishes his story. 

~

The next ending is bigger than a day or a book, the next ending, is terrifying for both of them. 

~

Clays kisses don’t feel the same to George anymore. 

They leave the same marks, and press gently on the same areas but they are disturbingly different. So when Clay kissed his shoulders gently, he pushed him away.   
Clay moves away immediately, sitting up. George turns around.   
He cannot do this right now, he cannot.

“What did I do? Is everything okay?” Clays voice, though coated in worry, failed to conceal the disappointment behind his tone. For this wasn’t the first time this has happened.   
“Nothing,” George looks down, drawling himself, hugging his knees. 

Clay moves to hold George, as he normally does.   
George shifts away. This is how it always is, George the victim, Clay the saviour. 

Imsorryimsorryimsorryimsorryimsorry

There is a loud silence.   
Clays sighs. “I don’t think this is working.” 

George cannot breathe. He cannot move he cannot see he cannot think. 

What?what?what?what?

Clay clears his throat, waiting for anything. 

George suddenly sobs, shaking with each starved cry and cough. Clay wants to hold him. But clay won’t. He is sick of saving George, sick of being in the wrong, sick of being a temporary bandage for Georges wounds. For no matter how much fabric and coating, this wound wouldn’t stop bleeding.   
George was crumbling, and ending, and Clay couldn’t help anymore, he could only watch, as George sobbed next to him.   
Because if he held him now, what would stop him from holding him tomorrow? If he held him now, it would make it harder to let go.

“I'm sorry” George muttered, collapsing into Clay’s lap, arms around his shoulders. 

No. 

“Im sorry, im sorry” He repeats.  
Clay gently removed George's small arms from his shoulders and stood up. It’s for him right? I'm doing this for George right? 

George looks up, eyes wide and red-rimmed.   
Clay clears his throat. “ I mean I seriously can’t, George, you’re - you’re breaking, I can’t help but think maybe - that it’s my fault.”   
George gets up immediately, and stands in-front of Clay. 

“No. No- Clay - I..I I need you - you're the only thing that's keeping me from-“ George stops, afraid of what he would say.   
Clay’s eyes widen, and he turns rigid - George cannot say that - he cannot mean it? He cannot mean it. 

So despite Clay’s own mind and reason, he rushed to George, and held the sobbing boy. 

How could he leave? Why did George make it so hard? 

And a new terrifying pressure was now placed on him, not only to keep George happy, but to keep him alive.   
But George felt horrible as well, everyone was hanging onto him by a string, and his fragility was becoming too much for him, and for others. 

He was a burden, and he was aware. 

-

The final end. 

-

George sat in his bathtub. He couldn’t even fathom what he was going to do, but he was doing it. It was less painful if it wasn’t there at all. 

He was sorry, he felt no malice towards anyone, only himself. 

Clay had left a couple days ago, after finding out George had burnt everything Clay had ever given him. 

George didn’t mean to hurt him, he was just trying to make it easier, for everyone. But clay had left, crying - and said he would be home in a couple days. He took the cat.   
Clay couldn’t help it. He had enough of the ‘relationship.’ 

As much as he wants it to stay, Clay cannot do anything, but watch it end. 

But now, there were all gone. 

His mother hadn’t talked to him in forever, his father was never there anyway, he cannot remember when Nick disappeared, but he did, and the only evidence that Clay was once here was the lingering smell of cheap cologne that stained the walls and the halls. 

George screamed and cried. 

He remembered a couple years ago his neighbour had called the council because George was too loud when recording videos. He supposed his screaming would sneak past the soundproofing.   
He was sorry to his neighbour too then. 

He was a burden, and he was aware.

Because how could he not be? He was sitting in the bath, alone, with six pills in the skinny surface of his hand, and there was no one there to tell him not too. 

He was so so fucking sorry, to everyone - but for once, he wanted to do something for himself. He supposed he shouldn’t be sorry for that. 

He raises the pills up to his mouth, then, with shuddering breath and aching eyes, he finishes his story. 

the end.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry, i love you all. 
> 
> If you ever feel like ur in a suicidal state:  
> Suicide prevention line: 13 11 14
> 
> stay safe, please feel free to talk to me or anyone about these feelings. 
> 
> twitter: https://twitter.com/daycl0 talk to me there. :)   
> lots of love <4 day.


End file.
